Unhappy
by Harry Hart
Summary: Craig cannot stomach feeling pain. He does not like the feeling, but soon his life is turned around when he and his whole family are swept into depression. His boyfriend has left him for a player who only wishes to use him to get girls. And he can do nothing about his unhappiness, except for harm himself until the emotional and physical pain equal out.


**A/N: Trigger warnings all around for - self harm, depression, death, sexual scenarios. As well as some slurs. For everyone willing to continue, enjoy.**

My name is Craig Tucker. I'm a fourteen year old fag from South Park, Colorado. My screen name is "kidinthechulohat."

Back in fourth grade, I fought, and then was rumored to be gay with, my best friend Tweek. Right, rumored.

I went to Peru after four kids I don't like invested my $100 into a Peruvian flute band. I'm written into an ancient Incan prophecy as stopping giant guinea pigs from taking over the world. Disregarding that last part, my life has been pretty normal.

As a ninth grader, nothing new or exciting has happened.

Sure, Cartman and his gang have gone on more adventures, they've caused more shit than they did even as fourth graders.

But, since they graduated middle school, they've seemed to mature. Stan and Kyle have all but abandoned the group, and Cartman and Kenny are closer than they've ever been. Despite Cartman being his homophobic, racist, poor-bashing self.

Well, maybe I shouldn't say "homophobic" so much anymore.

I'll go over that later.

Right now, however, I am watching three girls talk together about Clyde, and giggle about how cute he and his "boyfriend" are.

Clyde started dating Tweek a few weeks ago. Much to the dismay of Clyde's parents, and myself. It's sickening. They make out in the hallways, post selfies for each other on Instagram, and basically text-fuck each other all day. It makes me want to vomit.

Clyde's not gay, he never was, and never will be. He's trying to attract girls because they think guys who'll make out with other guys are hot. I know we are, but he doesn't need to do that to get girls. They all want him in the first place, and here he is, forcing Tweek to strip down to his briefs and grind against him for Snapchat clips to send to their horny fangirls.

I fucking remember when the fangirls were all over Tweek and I.

I throw my jacket over the back of my chair, and sit down. For once I'm early to class. Big fucking woop.

Algebra's not a fun subject. It's barely tolerable, I only like it when I can doodle on my tests and just turn them in like that because I wasn't there to learn the information. I was off in distant lands, like Token's basement smoking and listening to whatever music he digs, I'm too buzzed to pay attention. Or at home, texting my friends and updating my Instagram.

Back when Tweek and I were dating, he'd walk with me to algebra, he had the next class over, and he'd insist on staying outside a few extra minutes, lips locked with mine and hugging me close. Texting under desks, planning our next daring escape from our homes late at night, either going to bars with fake IDs (Ruffians' is the place to be if you're underage and want to make out with your boyfriend against a jukebox while drunk as hell), or sitting out by Stark's Pond and getting philosophical about life and shit.

Now I vow to be late to algebra everyday because Tweek and Clyde share their math class, and hold hands while walking to class. I don't need to see that slimebag doing such manipulative shit to my unwillingly ex-boyfriend.

Some major shift in the universe occurred when Tweek broke up with me for the second time. Token started really talking and bonding with me again, girls stopped trying to talk to me, guys never hit on me anymore (hint hint, Cartman), and I was left to steal cigarettes from Dad and go over to his house when he wasn't up to going to class either.

I flip my hair back out of my eyes, and I watch kids pack into class.

I know them all from elementary school.

Bebe sits next to Red, and they immediately break out their phones and talk about driving tests, Wendy sits at the table to the left of mine, and sorta watches me while Henrietta complains about how shitty Fall Out Boy is now (some emo tastes never die), and then Stan walks in, sitting beside me, how his seat was assigned.

He groans a little, and I cosmically understand his distress.

Wendy looks away the moment Stan sits down. Probably avoiding him because they broke up again, _shocker._

He glances at Wendy, then to me.

"Well, you're here for once," he shrugged. "Wanna copy my notes?"

Stan's really nice to me, ever since high school started. He doesn't call me a cynical fuckwad anymore, I think he's starting to simmer down and actually like me. Maybe because he's just as cynical now.

I point to my empty side of the desk.

"Last day of school before winter break, I'm not bringing anything to class."

Stan smiles a little, and nods.

"What're you doing over the break?"

I shrug, and decide to make up glorious lies.

"Gonna go to Hooters with my dad. Because Gay Craig wouldn't flinch seeing giant titties," my lie kinda broke at the end.

He just grins again, and starts doing the warm up projected onto the board.

I throw my backpack onto the seat across from me, and prop my feet up, leaning back in my seat.

The algebra teacher doesn't even acknowledge how I'm not doing work. She just continues to teach, and assist everyone else. "No child left behind" my ass.

Just 80 more minutes until I'm home free.

Stan and I don't talk the rest of the period. I check my phone a few times, scroll through Snapchat, and then just flat-out sleep.

I talk in my sleep, so when I say "you fucking slut" for some reason I can't remember, I'm shaken awake by Stan because the teacher is disgusted by my foul language. Why are you teaching at a high school if you don't like teenagers cussing like they have verbal tics?

40 minutes left. I'm great at sleeping.

The rest of class is a breeze. I keep checking my social media, and I see that Tweek has refollowed me. Inside my heart wants to flutter and burst at the seams, but I just decide to send a pic of my left Converse and ask him why he's following me again.

He doesn't respond for 15 minutes.

"I dunno, I just missed talking to you."

"People don't just refollow their exes because they missed talking to them."

"But that's why I'm following you again!"'

Thank god only he can see this conversation.

He sends me his own pic, of his right Converse.

"Dude I just wanna talk to someone who doesn't peak my anxiety."

"And Clyde and his fuckboy friends don't?"

"They don't like me. They don't like mentally-ill coffee-addicts. They like swag hags with perfect hair and large packages."

"Fucking ew, Tweek. I didn't need that info."

"Sorry."

I take a pic of a drawing on my side of the desk. A dick with three balls. I think Cartman sits at my same seat in the class before me. Just to settle the unease growing in my stomach the longer I talk to Tweek about his new "boyfriend." And his dick.

Apparently Butters likes it, calling it "Neat-o!" with a unicorn emoji. Kenny likes it, sending a "100" emoji. Likely ironically. Then Bebe, and Red, and it circulates to Cartman who does in fact claim it to be his masterpiece.

I erase it for good measure. This pisses the fatass off, and he rants at me, threatening to report my account for "slander" and then sending me a handmade middle finger emoji. Just for me. Christmas present from Eric fucking Cartman, and I'm the happiest boy in the world.

Until Tweek likes the pic.

"Why the hell are you liking my pics? People are gonna think you're cheating on Clyde."

"They know I wouldn't!"

It's easier having a conversation with Tweek on IG, especially since his verbal tics returned once he started dating Clyde. I didn't notice until we broke up that he stopped twitching and making his anxious noises while we were together.

That made my chest area get cold very fast.

"Well Clyde would probably be a-okay breaking up with you if it meant he's got three bimbos waiting in line to score with him."

Tweek simply types out "..." and then stops pming me.

I think I've fucked up royally.

And bam, I'm home.

Lying on the couch, eating Goldfish, watching Red Racer because it's actually still a fucking good show. Sixteen seasons and still enjoyable.

Mom's sitting in the dining room, wrapping Christmas presents for Dad. I glance over and see her look so unhappy, the holidays do drain her a lot.

And here I am, constantly watching TV and never going out anymore. I haven't hung out with any of my friends in about two weeks. It's persisting.

Mom tapes more wrapping paper together, hiding a metal box containing a magnetic wallet. She's been avoiding social interaction and events for the entirety of the year, because she's not happy anymore. But her New Year's resolution isn't to get out more, or get on anti-depressants.

This has been pissing Dad off. He just wants her to keep acting how she used to. Bubbly, happy, like when I was in middle school.

2015's been shit to everyone.

My little sister had to start online school because of bullying. She had to get counseling. She was put on anti-depressants and her friends all dumped her just because she was leaving school. Dad had a rough six months because he started drinking heavily. It hurt him to admit that he was an alcoholic, and he stopped working until he got down to three drinks per week. Mom became a social recluse because no one liked how she was acting. She stayed inside all day, except when she had to go shopping. And Tweek and I broke up after four years of harmonic happiness. I started to self harm (a.k.a. scratching the hell out of my wrist with scissors), smoke, and stole Dad's liquor to hide in my room. For safe keeping.

I pray the year will end soon. No one's been happy this whole year.

I turn off the TV, and trudge upstairs.

No Stripe to greet me anymore. He died a few months ago. And I don't want to get another guinea pig.

It hurts me most to say I cry over the fact my guinea pig died. I never cried when Tweek broke up with me. I never cried when my sister had to get put on happy pills, or when my dad had a mental breakdown and stopped traffic while staring off into the great abyss as I shook his shoulders and screamed at him to go, people growled from other cars to move, threatening to beat his ass. I never cried when I lost my friends, I never cried when I realized my whole family was unhappy, I never cried when I was confronted about all my pink and red scars by the school counselor.

Stripe was there for me. He chirped and hopped and wheeked at me when I came home, breathing hard and tearing off my jacket when I was informed my boyfriend left me for a goddamned player. I spent the rest of the night with him, holding him and petting his back and giving him carrots because he deserved every morsel of food he got.

And then I came home one day, head pounding because life just hated me, and he was curled up in his house, having died earlier in the day. I locked myself in my room while my dad buried him outside, crying in a frustrated way, curled up in my bed tighter than I could fathom I'd get out of. I sobbed loudly, my last true friend gone. I never understood why I was so upset about his death. Maybe I never will.

I throw my hat onto the floor, with my coat and my shoes and socks.

I collapse into bed, and bury myself in the covers. It hurts reliving that memory, but it shouldn't.

It's fun pretending you're strong until that one trivial moment breaks down your walls and you start to hurt. Very badly. You hurt so bad your knees feel like they'll snap if you stand, your eyes are burning red hot from tears, you're going to hurl if you cry to hard, and your lungs gasp violently for air. That type of pain that makes you feel like you're going to die.

One tear escapes my eye.

I push it away.

I push the next few away, and the next few after that.

My sheets are stained with tears. I'm such a fucking pussy. If I could, I'd shoot myself right here, right now. I can't.

I look over that those scissors I used to scratch myself a few months back, and I slash with the sharp edge.

It doesn't hurt until the searing burn washes over me for the rest of the day. That's when you know the scars will last for more than a few hours.

And they all were almost healed. My habits will probably never die.

When I get in the shower, they burn, yet I keep holding them under the water. The pain's what I need right now. It's not what I want, I deserve this for being the cockass I am.

Once the night's drawing to a close, IG's flooded with pics of Tweek and Clyde together, grinding on his bed and making out in 15 second intervals. I want to grab my scissors again and keep slashing, but instead I turn my phone off, and lie down.

Lie down silently, and just stare off at the sky.

I wonder if Tweek's watching the moon. I wonder if he sees the same moon I do, and is as fascinated with it as I am.

I wonder if his face is buried in Clyde's sheets and he has a cock up his ass.

It's easy how sick I can make myself so quickly.


End file.
